


Touch

by theprydonian_archivist



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-14
Updated: 2008-08-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprydonian_archivist/pseuds/theprydonian_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't go one moment without touching him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the LJ community slashthedrabble prompt "broke(n)".
> 
> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

He closes himself off in the darkness, leaving only the primal channels of his brain open. Even limited in senses, he can still feel: the rope bites into his wrists; his wrists grind together as his arms move; his arms tingle almost painfully above his head from the loss of blood; his blood rushes through his body; his body warms. The sharp and sudden contrast of a cool mouth closing over one nipple is enough to drive him mad. He cranes his head back, stretching his neck and straining his arms. His elbows bend and the rope tightens around his wrists. He breathes out. His voice is a keen whine, growl, sigh. It is a plea of desperation. 

He spreads his legs, clutching at the promise of full contact, and curls his toes around the bunched sheets on the bed. He chokes on a word as his lover’s body falls between his legs, his teeth scraping along his sweating sternum. That word is a name, a title, a promise. That word is meaningless. 

When, after a beat, all is still, he lifts his head and opens his eyes to find the dark eyes of his companion watching him. Slowly, his captor runs his tongue along his teeth, his mouth never closing, leaning in, stopping just a hair’s breadth away from his own lips. 

“You can’t,” Koschei breathes across his mouth, “Go one moment without touching me, can you?”

Theta twists his body in an answer, wrapping his legs around his lover’s waist. 

“This must be exquisite torture for you,” Koschei's hands are soft and gentle against his face. “Reduced to a writhing, primitive fool. Not too far off from your usual, I would suspect, hm? I’m going to touch you now, while you can’t do a thing about it.”

They lock eyes. Something slips into the back of Theta's mind, raising his heartsbeat, tensing all his muscles. He growls from the back of his throat in response to the intrusion, arching his back and resisting his bonds. He strikes up his defenses, and strengthens the walls of his mind. He becomes like a coil, twined to a critical point. Koschei can feel it. He is burning. Koschei can feel that, too. 

Something shifts in their embrace, and Koschei becomes positioned in the most strategic manner, in his mind, over his body. His eyes are dark like storms. Theta’s arms ache with the desire to escape. 

“Tell me, Theta. Tell me I am your master.” 

Theta doesn’t get a chance to. Koschei easily breaks through the higher orders of his consciousness, jolting all of his senses awake, scraping along memories of sensations and words and whispers and time itself, at the same moment he breaks into him physically.

Broken. It's a good word to use. Both of them feel his left wrist snap as the headboard jerks back. They can only laugh, and drown themselves in endorphin-laced kisses. It wouldn't be one of their games if noone had ended up hurt.


End file.
